ribs
by trykko
Summary: sometimes one lifetime really isn't enough. (oc insert)
1. in the wilderness

A staggering figure rises to stand, painted black against the backdrop of a settling sun. Red and orange mingle with pink, the sun bleeding into existence amidst it all. A canvas of warm colours contrasts with the cutting winter air and a misty breath escapes parched lips. Worn hands cling to the hilt of a buried sword, bones aching with cold as knees grind against the rough fabric of a worker's pants.

A day's worth of labour, he thinks as his right foot slips into the depths of a puddle. It isn't the sky that paints its rippling surface a maroon colour.

With a grunt of exertion he moves on, step by step, towards his own north.

Towards the smell of red grapes and dried lemon.


	2. rebirth by death

Somewhere else lashes part, dark brown in their colour. They bare irises to a world of light, an open window. Pupils shrink, as if jumping back in fright, but his body remains motionless. Instead, lips part to push out a strained noise of discomfort.

A mother gets startled, her hair pulled back in a loose bun and eyes rimmed with darkened skin, glancing away from the worn chopping board in front of her. Instead she looks at the tiny baby-boy lying on top of a few woolen blankets.

She feeds him squished greens, the ones she can spare, and tightly packs him in covers. You can read it in the way she brushes his thin hair back in place – she hopes he'll sleep off this stomach ache as easily as the fever.

Only this isn't a stomach ache.


	3. kingly

ok, starting from this point on, it'll be officially M! this story, not just this chapter, will involve **violence, straight and gay romance,** odd **age gaps **and **i will be** **mentioning pedophilia **too (i don't support it, i just write about it, etc. etc. etc.) **and maybe more**. soooo i don't have a clear idea of where this is going, and i am mostly writing this for fun (that said, these are all five minute ficlets, but i think there might be a few real chapters in the making?). and because i need to post something and not delete it, no matter how odd. or bad. or good. so! hope you like it!

**i'd love to know what you're expecting** (especially regarding the plot), and **which DA characters you'd like to see**! will i ever stop using exclamations! who knows! How many paragraphs can a person begin with the letter H! will i ever use : correctly? i don't know that either!

ps: i'd love some help with my grammar. english is not my first or second language lol

He grows up, back held straight by the comfort his fathers' hands offer – rough and callused but never ever trembling. Still, no matter how hard he tries to be a man as steady as his always-gone-but-much-loved parent, he never feels male enough to back himself up.

There is something holding him back. This time, it's not the memories he carries like a tattoo. Always there, sometimes regretted, sometimes appreciated.

His problem is this: He is pretty, remarkably pretty for a nine year old boy.

His lashes brush against his cheeks when he glances down, shadowed by the dark hair of his eyebrows. Lips a rosy pink as if bitten and there are beauty marks spread all over his body, two aligned on the right side of his chin, one by his eye, one beneath his ear, by his pulse and the rest hidden underneath smudged clothes. They tell tales of mischief and innocence on their own, and how often have people have asked; _can I count them?_

His hair, though often resembling a bird's nest, is a healthy dark brown and is a mingling of cowlicks and curls alike. Too heavy for his head, sometimes, like a crown. A princely child, his aunt called him proudly.

The shagging of his shoulders, however, stems from the weight of his thoughts, not from a royal cloak.

He makes up for his feminine shoulders with the violence in his guts, with the angry, flaming scrapes on his knuckles and all the times that he comes home with conflict in his eyes. More whispered tales that center around his ruthless doings. Sometimes they exaggerate the pranks he pulls, stretching them with every retelling till they turn into organized crimes.

But he isn't a criminal.

(_He killed a knight back when he lived with the Earl, _a pointy-eared child informs her mother, glancing at his retreating back. _They didn't believe he was a boy and wanted to check, and that's why he lives here now_.

He keeps his tongue in check, doesn't tell the little elven girl that they wanted to do more than just check.)

He's more than just big brown eyes: a bit devilish, yes, but not a criminal.

"It keeps people away, Taras." His father says, neutral, informing him rather than judging him. "Your attitude, I mean."

"I know." he replies. _Good._


End file.
